


To Speak or to Die?

by thealyx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Almost forgot to add that, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Based in France, First Love, It's kinda of a sad ending though, M/M, Things get pretty intense, Tomarry Big Bang 2018, heavily inspired by Call Me By Your Name, like seriously, no magic, so brace yourself?, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 17:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealyx/pseuds/thealyx
Summary: A handsome young knight is madly in love with a princess. And she too is in love with him. Though she doesn’t seem to be entirely aware of it, despite the friendship that blossoms between them. Perhaps because of that very friendship, the young knight finds himself so humbled and speechless. But he is totally unable to bring up the subject of his love. So one day he asks the princess point-blank. Is it better to speak or to die?Harry Potter is utterly enamored with this year’s summer graduate student, Tom Riddle. The question is, will he speak? Or will he bring his secret with him to the grave?





	To Speak or to Die?

**Author's Note:**

> SOOO I know that I already posted this a while back, BUT I DIDN'T LIKE IT. So now it's gone. WHOOOO. Hope you enjoy this one? Hopefully? Please?

**I.**

 

“ _ Bye!”  _

 

Harry had never heard someone say such a farewell in such a cold, curt, and dismissive way. It seemed thinly veiled with an indifference, one would forget who they had even said such a farewell to seconds later after the words left their mouth. 

 

It was the first thing that Harry could remember when he thought of him. And he could still hear it.  _ Bye!  _ Whenever he heard that word spoken in such a way, it would drag to the forefront of his mind, a memory so long ago that it should have been forgotten, but how could Harry ever forget him? 

 

When Harry closed his eyes, and breathed in the briny air of the sea, Harry was back in France, walking the shaded driveway of his home, watching a man step out of the cab that he came in. His loose white shirt billowing in the wind, his eyes obscured by sunglasses. 

 

Perhaps, Harry thought, it all just began right there. Was it the way his coffee colored hair moved in the wind? Or was it when Harry first laid eyes on those icy blue eyes when the sunglasses came off? Harry couldn’t remember anymore. 

 

It was this summer’s houseguest. Maybe not such a bore as the last one. But Harry couldn’t be sure yet. 

 

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the man was upon him, shaking his hand, handing Harry his backpack, words spilling out of his mouth, asking where Harry’s mother was, removing his two suitcases from the back of the cab’s trunk. 

 

Then, almost as if it was only muscle memory, he carelessly raised a hand, with his back already turned to the leaving cab, he said, “ _ Bye! _ ” Careless, blunt. Nothing added, no frills, nothing. No name added, no real sentiment behind that one word, almost as if he couldn’t be bothered. 

 

As we walked up the driveway together, Harry bitterly thought to himself this was how he was going to say farewell to them  with a brisk  _ Bye!  _ And he would be gone from their  lives forever. 

 

But meanwhile, Harry had to deal with him for an entire summer. Maybe grow to like him. But for now he seemed entirely unapproachable, intimidating. 

 

This man was the one that had jumped out to his mother, out of the hundreds of applications each year, this man was the one that leapt out, with the promise of becoming something greater.

 

Housing a summer guest was Harry’s mother help graduate students revise their manuscripts before it was released into the public. Meanwhile, Harry had to vacate his room to the small one downstairs, that during the winter times, when no one lived in the villa, became a toolshed. The summer resident didn’t have to pay for anything. They could do anything they wanted, provided they helped Harry’s mother with paperwork for about two hours each day. 

 

Most summer residents became a part of the family, each Christmas, the Potters were flooded with letters and postcards. Some, would come over to Europe and drop by the villa with their families and revisit, just for nostalgia’s sake, the places where they did their research. 

 

During meals, there were always two or three extra guests. They could be anyone, past summer residents, doctors, lawyers, or even just complete strangers who wanted to have a first-hand experience of the villa. 

 

Perhaps it started soon after, when they were having lunch, and he was sitting next to Harry, that Harry noticed that despite having a golden tan on most areas of his skin, the palm of his hands were a soft pale color. The same applied to his throat and forearms. Untouched by the sun’s heated glare. It was reminiscent of the blush on a person’s face, it was private, chaste. 

 

Maybe it was when everyone was sprawled on the grass, a tangle of bodies on the grass. Shirtless or dressed in bathing suits. They just lay there before someone thankfully suggested that they go take a swim. Anyone was welcome. 

 

It was perhaps when they were at the beach. Or the volleyball court. Or maybe when they were walking together, and Harry was giving him a tour of the house. And they walked on the abandoned railroad that once connected their city to another. “Is there an abandoned train somewhere?” He asked. 

 

“Probably somewhere,” Harry responded. “The train just stopped when you waved it down, kind of like a cab in some way, I suppose.” 

 

He seemed interested in the trains, so I said that there were some derailed train cars, and the gypsies lived in them. I offered to show him, but he just shrugged his shoulders, and gave a noncommittal answer that sounded vaguely like  _ Maybe later _ . 

 

It stung. It was as if he noticed that Harry was trying to warm up to him, and it was polite indifference. It was like he was trying politely push Harry away. And It hurt. 

 

Instead, he wanted to get into contact with his French translator. He needed to create a contract that allowed them to publish his manuscript in French. He also wanted to open a bank account in the city. 

 

Harry took him by bike, but it didn’t feel any better than it did when they were walking on the side of the abandoned railroad. 

 

Along the way, they stopped to drink. But the shop was dark and humid, and the owner was scrubbing everything with vinegar. They got out as quickly as they could. Harry took a long drink from the water, and gave it over to the other. 

 

Harry got the water back soon after, and he took another sip. Harry  poured some of it into his hand and splashed it on his face. 

 

Soon after, they got back on the bike, and finished whatever they were doing. Once back, he asked Harry what he did in his free time. 

 

Harry just said a few simple things, he played volleyball, he played the piano, ran in the mornings. Read poetry. Swam in the stream. 

 

Running sounded nice, he said. Where did one jog around here? He asked. Just along the promenade overlooking the beach, Harry answered. Harry offered to show him, but again, it was just with the shrug of the shoulders, and  _ Maybe later _ . 

 

It was always as soon as Harry started to like him again that those two cold words would come back. 

 

While sitting around, the man turned to Harry asking what people did around here. Harry smiled at him, his lips quirking up in a smirk. Not much, Harry answered, wait for summer to end perhaps. 

 

Then what did people do in the winter, the man asked. At the sight of Harry’s smiled, the man answered his own question. Don’t tell me, wait for summer to come. Harry smiled. He was starting to like this man again. 

 

But of course, as soon as Harry offered to show him the tower, where if you climbed to the top, you would be able to see the entire expanse of the ocean.  _ Maybe later  _ hit Harry in the face again. 

 

It could have started a lot later than Harry thought. It was like one of those moments, when it feels like time is speeding past you, and all you want it is to stop, slow down, so you could savor the moment forever. You see someone, but you don’t really see them. Until it’s too late. You realize that you desire them. That strong urge of  _ I want _ . When Harry was going for the smile that stretched on the man’s face whenever he saw Harry, what he really wanted was to be with him. 

 

Harry was snapped out of his musings when he felt the man’s gaze on him. Harry looked up, and recoiled. The man’s gaze was cold, frigid. It pierced Harry’s heart.  _ What?  _ Harry thought.  _ Why? _ Why couldn’t this man just be kind to him. Like when they were laughing together on the tracks. Walking on the beach in the evening. 

 

_ I should stay away from him.  _ Harry thought. To think that he had almost fallen for the man. For his soft hands, his unmarred throat, arms. What a strange man. And so, for two days, they avoided each other. 

 

Then, as if nothing had happened. The man came up to Harry, asking if he wanted to go have a run. Where. Just anywhere. Then the promenade? Sure. 

 

Today, it was almost as if the pain of the past two days had evaporated. The false good mornings and salutations. The chit chat that really had no meaning. It simply disappeared from Harry’s mind. 

 

Or maybe, it really all started after a few days the man was here. When Harry realized that the man actually knew who he was. It felt like such a luxury to Harry to be acknowledged by this man. They jogged early in the morning, when the birds have just started to open their mouths to sing. In the afternoon they swam in the pool next to the villa. 

 

But that gaze would always come back. That cold gaze that was like a blade. A gleaming blade that would retract whenever the person saw it. Whenever Harry made eye contact with the man, he would give a smile that didn’t mean anything, as if he was telling Harry,  _ There’s no point in hiding it now.  _

 

When the man noticed that Harry was shaken from what he had encountered, he came to Harry and inquired about the piano.  But, Harry was too guarded to answer his questions truthfully. The man sighed. “Could you play it again?” But I thought you hated it. When did I say that I hated it? They argued, but the man just sighed, and asked, “Just play it again would you?” 

 

Harry played it again. 

 

Why was it different this time? I just played it how Chopin would have played it. Just play it again. Harry played it again. 

 

It’s different again, why can’t you just play it again the same way? It was how Liszt would have played it. The man sighed. Can you just play it the way Beethoven wanted it to play it? How can we be sure of how Beethoven wanted to play it? How can we be sure this piece is by Beethoven at all? Just play it again. 

 

Harry played it again. 

 

It was different again! Well I played it how a young Beethoven would have played it. Before he went deaf, and how he could appreciate the true beauty of music. 

 

Harry knew however, whenever he  hit a certain measure, it would affect the man so much. It was like Harry was sending him a little gift. Harry would play that measure each time, make him remember who Harry was, long after he left. 

 

Later, when everyone was in bed, Harry was in his little room, he wrote in his notebook that he carried with him everywhere:  _ It’s not that I thought that you hated the music that I was playing. It was the fact that I thought you hated me.  _

 

This man was always flipping from winter to summer. Never really establishing who he really was. Harry wondered, was he like this as well? Always flipping from frigid to warm. 

 

_ P.S Nothing is ever written to be played by one instrument. One can transcribe them to be played by another. Neither am I -- or you.  _

 

* * *

  
  
  
  


However, Harry thought, was how quick he was to label this man as some cold creature that’s only joy was to toy with him. But, as soon as a word slipped out of those lips, Harry was senseless to his inner musings. It became that he would play the piano for this man, eat lunch with him, do everything with him. All Harry wanted him to say, what Harry wanted to hear, I liked you the moment I saw you. But this man would just as quickly open up, then close again. 

 

Then, one sticky summer afternoon, when the sun was bright and hot, and everyone in the villa was off to the beach, except for the two of them. Harry and this man. It was in this moment that Harry felt a burning fire in him. It wasn’t a burning feeling, but it was a feeling of being paralyzed. Harry tried to make sense of what was happening, but he couldn’t. It was like all the air was knocked out of him, and he was struggling to breathe. What was happening? Harry didn’t know. 

 

Harry lay in his bed body being burned by this fire, this fire of  _ want.  _ He wanted this man to come to his room, to just knock on the door. 

 

Then, almost as if summoned by his prayers, the man came, but without the knocking, the man stood at the door. The man asked why Harry wasn’t at the beach like the others. What Harry wanted to say was that he wanted to be with Tom, just be with him. But Harry couldn’t bring himself to say it. He just lay there pretending to be asleep. 

 

Suddenly, there was another person in the room, walking. Sitting on the foot of Harry’s bed, as if thinking about something. Decision made, Harry felt Tom lay on the bed with him. Not far away from him. Right next to him. So close that Harry could feel his breath on his face. The scent of the sea mingling with Tom’s cologne. 

 

It felt like finally coming home. Like belonging in a place where the people were just like you. It was a wonderful feeling of finally understanding something in all of Harry’s seventeen years. 

 

Then, Harry felt a hand, hovering above his face. As if deliberating. A finger brushed upon Harry’s face, a ghost of a touch. But there regardless. Harry’s breath catched as he had to fight to close his eyes. To fight against the urge that was overcoming him to tangle his hands in Tom’s hair, and stare into his deep blue eyes. 

 

Harry almost sighed in disappointment when Tom got up from the bed gently, placing a ghost of a kiss on his head. And left. 

 

Harry just wished to all the gods above that he would be able to spend an eternity in the bliss he had just felt. 

 

The next day, when they were in the expansive front yard of the villa, Harry was playing volleyball with some of his friends. He saw the ball coming toward him, and lunged for it. But all of a sudden, there was a sudden pain in his calf. It was like someone had taken a baseball bat, and hit his leg as hard as they could. Harry tumbled onto the grass. 

 

He saw a tall figure run toward him. Tom. Harry felt Tom’s hands on his legs. Gentle. Without thinking, Harry flinched, trying to draw away. Harry felt the hands leave. No. No. Don’t stop, Harry thought. Don’t go. But, he already saw Tom getting up, gesturing to someone. Harry saw a shock of red hair. “He’s all knots and stressed out muscles,” Tom said. Gently, Tom guided the girl’s hand on Harry’s leg. “If you massage it all out, he should be fine.” 

 

Ginny. That was her name, Harry recalled. She had a light blush that was staining her cheeks as she massaged Harry’s leg. This was Ron’s little sister. Right. “You know, you should relax more, really. You’ll injure yourself.” Tom said. 

 

Harry remained silent. Not sure of what to say. All that was running in his head was what had happened yesterday. He still felt Tom’s lips on his forehead. The ghost of a feeling, fleeting, and if Harry didn’t think about it, it would disappear, dissolve into the air. 

 

Harry shook his head, why had he flinched? It was almost as if another touch from this man would leave him so boneless that he wouldn’t be able to get up. It would almost be like becoming a marionette that would fall as soon as its strings were cut, and Tom was like the pair of scissors. 

 

Harry sighed, and got up. Later in the evening, when he opened up his journal, and he was writing, he realized all of a sudden, as if struck by lightning. Was he in love? Was that what it was? Was it not merely a obsession with Tom’s perfect skin, his blue eyes that held speckles of maroon in its depths. The way his hair was curled so perfectly, and how his shirt always seemed to be billowing in the wind. The way how his neck was unkissed by the sun. 

 

But beneath it all, Harry thought, wasn’t the carefree young man that everyone saw. There was ice, cold and hard hidden under. It would show in those brief flashes in his eyes, hardening like crystals. Like a knife, slashing through anything, and seeing through everything. 

 

It was shown when an overly arrogant man had come to visit Harry’s mother at the villa. Some philosopher that had a ‘holier than thou’ attitude. It irked Harry, but he didn’t say anything. But Tom mocked the man endlessly. He was so subtle that the man didn’t even notice that he was being mocked. It was as if the man didn’t know what the word ‘sarcasm’ meant. The way that Tom smiled, and his eyes glinting like pieces of glass, terrified Harry. 

 

Harry was suddenly reminded of that time, it seemed so long ago, but it must have been only at most a few weeks ago, when Harry had been sitting at the table, and he felt those cold eyes on him. He had been horrified. Wondering what he had done wrong. Did Tom judge him, and find him respectable? Harry saw less and less of those cold eyes directed upon him, and he was relieved. 

 

Tears were welling up in Harry’s eyes all of a sudden. What? What was he even upset about, Harry thought. Did he fear Tom’s rejection that much? He heard footsteps come into his room. No. Not him. Harry wanted nothing to do with him right now. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Tom’s voice asked. His voice like soft velvet, caressing Harry’s ears. 

 

“Nothing,” Harry replied, “just bad allergies, that’s all.” 

 

“I have allergies too, we must be suffering the same one,” Tom said. He looked down, “you want to go for a swim? You already got your swim trunks on.” 

 

“Maybe later,” Harry said. Feeling vindictive when he echoed Tom’s words back at him. 

 

“Why not now?”

 

“Don’t really feel like it.”

 

“You already have your swim trunks on, why not got now?” 

 

“I said that I didn’t feel like it.” 

 

“Alright,” Tom said getting up, “If you really want to be like that. “

 

“How about we go to the movies instead? There’s one that I’ve been dying to see,” Harry said, grasping for something, anything, to make Tom stay. 

 

“Sure, why not,” Tom said, shrugging his shoulders. “There isn’t really anything else to do.” 

 

Days later, Harry was in the pool with Tom. The silence was heavy and thick, and made Harry squirm. “Are you sleeping, Tom?” 

 

Tom took off the sunglasses that were shading his face. “I was, before you interrupted. “ 

 

“Sorry,” Harry said. 

 

“Well,” Tom said. “What are you doing, other than bothering me from my afternoon slumber?” 

 

“Reading.” 

 

“No, you’re not.” 

 

“Well, I mean I was. Now, I’m thinking.” 

 

“About what.”

 

“Why should I tell you?” 

 

Tom laughed, a small smirk pulling on his lips. “He won’t tell me.” 

 

“Nope.”

 

“Okay,” Tom said, getting out of the pool, water trailing after him. 

 

When Harry thought back, he tried to define his relationship with Tom. The first word that came to mind was  _ friendship _ , but the word didn’t sound right. It felt like it was lacking something. The correct word was somewhere there, but Harry couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Harry didn’t realize it just yet, but when he did, he would’ve realized it was a lot more than just a simple infatuation. 

 

In the morning, when Harry was playing volleyball, he noticed a girl staring at Tom with intense interest. Harry looked at her, what was her name? She looked oddly familiar, but Harry couldn’t place it.  As Harry looked around, he noticed that many people who never came this early in the morning were here as well. 

 

Were they all hoping to catch a look at Tom? This thought somehow put Harry at ease. If everyone liked Tom, then what choice did Harry have? It would’ve been odd for Harry to not like him. Harry looked at the girl again. She had curly black hair, and a very familiar face shape. Wasn’t she Sirius’ sister? Bellatrix. Yes, Harry thought. That sounded right. 

 

Harry remembered when in the first week, his mother had pulled him aside and asked him how he liked this year’s summer guest. I like him very much, Harry had answered. Harry’s mother smiled, patted him on the head, and told him to go do something. 

 

But Harry wasn’t fooling himself, and he knew it. There would be no way in the world that Tom would ever like someone like him. 

 

* * *

  
  
  


It should’ve been obvious, Harry thought as he watched Tom and Bellatrix dance together in the multi-colored lights. 

 

As the summer drew on, many others wanted Tom to come to their houses. Bellatrix wanted him to come at least three times a week. And whenever he left, it would always be that abominable  _ Bye!  _ So cold, and cutting, that it would never cease to shock Harry whenever he heard it. 

 

Harry watched enviously on as Bellatrix leaned in closer to Tom as he wound his arms around her waist. Harry watched as Bellatrix giggled in his arms. He turned away, of course, there would be no way that Tom Riddle would love Harry. 

 

Tom Riddle was perfect, he would never fall for a mere boy like Harry.  But Harry just couldn’t, wouldn’t let him go. Harry always kept him in his line of sight, sometimes just on the outer edge of his vision. He would always be there, and it was calming to Harry in a way. 

 

Harry just felt like he couldn’t lose him. But what did he have? He was nothing, he was just a little boy living his own fantasy. One where he could just be happy. But Harry knew that he was just fooling himself with his little charade.

 

But Harry knew he would never mean anything to Tom. Just someone to pass the time casually. Chit chat. Nothing. Just blank monotony. 

 

Tom left the villa more often because of his frequent visits to other places in their little town. It became that Harry would look longingly at his spot on the dinner table, hoping to all Gods that Tom would just show up. 

 

Harry hated how his heart leapt and bloomed like some flower when he saw Tom’s perfect face, sometimes shirtless, with just his swim trunks, as blue as his eyes. Hated how Tom could make him feel this way with just his voice. As deep and beautiful as the sea, that Harry just wanted to drown in it. 

 

Sometimes, when Harry couldn’t take it anymore, he thought of murdering Tom. Of just letting himself be free. Or at least hurting him enough that he would have to spend his life in a wheelchair, and unable to return back to his home in Britain. 

 

That way, Harry thought, he could be with Tom forever. 

 

But then another thought hit Harry. If he just killed himself, then he would never even have to think of Tom ever again. Just a black nothingness. A void. Or at least mar his own face so that whenever Tom looked at him, he would wonder. And then, then - _ Maybe Later! _ \- he would finally understand just why, and sob quietly on the ground. Just as Harry had, when he saw Bellatrix in Tom’s arms. 

 

He knew what Bellatrix was playing at. Harry knew that Bellatrix was young. Practically the same age as him. Her body was more than ready for him. Was she more ready than he was? Harry thought. But Harry just wanted to spend one night with Tom. To see if what he was feeling was real. 

 

Harry watched sullenly as they danced together, their bodies twisting in sensual circles around each other. 

 

The next morning, Harry heart made a surprised leap, a jolt, when he saw Tom lounging on the chair in their expansive garden. Did his heart do gymnastics when he saw Harry? Harry doubted it. Harry was nothing to Tom, he was sure. 

 

But Harry wanted to mean something. He wanted to be the master of this chess game he was playing with Tom, and he would not fail. He exchanged pleasantries with both. He subtly added compliments to the conversation that he was in about the other. 

 

However, they quickly caught on to what he was doing. “Are you trying to set us up?” Tom asked, rising out of his chair, taking off his sunglasses. “Don’t need you help, Harry. It’s nice, but not wanted.” 

 

Tom had just gone and thrown the entire chessboard out the goddamned window. He had ruined the game. 

 

That morning, Harry didn’t ask him to go jogging with him. But when the silence became so unbearable to him, Harry offered. “Already went. You wake up very late these days.” 

 

First to go were their morning jogs along the seaside. Next were the volleyball games, choosing instead to go biking with Bellatrix on the roads. Harry’s heart was shattered when Tom had approached him and asked to borrow his bike. “You’re not using it anyways, and Bellatrix needs one, hers broke.” 

 

Harry felt like he had lost Tom forever to someone else, and it hurt, it hurt him more than he could ever admit. 

 

Whenever Harry looked at Tom and Bellatrix, something dark and visceral would rise up from deep within him, and all it wanted to do was to have him open his mouth and scream at the top of his lungs for all the world to hear was that Tom was his, his and no one else's. 

 

But Harry couldn’t. There was something in him that also feared that cold, glacial gaze that was directed at him in the beginning of the summer. He feared that more than losing Tom forever to someone else. 

It was raining the next day, heavy pelts of it coming down from the sky. It was as if the sky was crying for Harry, for the emptiness that he felt. 

 

He lay down on the couch, tears on the edges of his eyes, but never falling out. Hours later, his mother found him there, eyes glassy and staring at nothing. She gently sat down besides him, and quietly asked, “He’s more than just a friend to you, isn’t he?” 

 

“Yes,” Harry said in a broken whisper. “Yes, he is. But I feel like he thinks me of less than a friend.” 

 

“You’ll never know unless you ask, Harry,” His mother said softly, stroking his hair. 

 

“But I already know,” Harry said, tears welling up in his eyes. “I mean nothing to him, he barely even sees me now.”

 

“Do you remember that story about the prince and the princess?” His mother asked. 

 

“No, can you tell it to me again?” 

 

“Alright Harry. Once upon a time, a handsome young knight is madly in love with a princess. And she too is in love with him. Though she doesn’t seem to be entirely aware of it, despite the friendship that blossoms between them. Perhaps because of that very friendship, the young knight finds himself so humbled and speechless. But he is totally unable to bring up the subject of his love. So one day he asks the princess point-blank. Is it better to speak or to die?” 

 

“So what do you think?” Harry asked, “Is it better to speak, or to die?” 

 

“It will always be better to speak, Harry,” His mother whispered. 

 

“Is it really?” Harry said, tears streaming down his face. 

 

“You really do love him, don’t you?” His mother asked. 

 

“I--I do,” Harry said brokenly. “And it hurts so much, that I feel as if I’m physically breaking on the inside. 

 

“You’ll never heal until you speak Harry, it’ll always stay there, that gnawing feeling of  _ what if? _ It will always stay there, and never leave.”

 

“I know, and that’s why it hurts so much.” 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There is more to come. I WILL WRITE. HOPEFULLY


End file.
